


Tired Is Your Splendid Soldier

by viagiordano



Series: Snowfall [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Adult Themes, F/F, Post-Series, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viagiordano/pseuds/viagiordano
Summary: Glimpses into the (wishful) domestic bliss Villanelle shares with Eve in her home, one month at a time.





	Tired Is Your Splendid Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the wonderful voice of Alev Lenz.  
> This work overlaps with "Fall Into Me", so if you haven't read that one, this work will make little or absolutely no sense.  
> All mistakes are my own.

**I. _june._ **

  
  
The first thing Villanelle does when she wakes up is groans. Loudly.  
  
Her back hurts.  
  
She stretches like a cat, wriggles her hips to pop her vertebrae and _ouch_ , that does not feel good at all.  
  
Groaning some more, she pushes her hair out of her face and slowly opens her eyes. The study is bathed in soft sunlight. She'd forgotten to close the curtains last night-- well, early morning. Unconsciously, her hand travels up to her abdomen, traces her stitched-up wound through her top. It's aching a bit.  
  
Bastards. Just when she'd been getting better, they'd just had to throw her under a Sprinter. Well, she's still in one piece. Can't say the same for the other guy.  
  
_I miss my bed._  
  
All of this had seemed like a good idea last night.  
  
Now, not so much.  
  
Not a good idea at all, now that she'd spent a night on the couch.  
  
Still, if someone stabbed you, you wouldn't find safety with them. Villanelle counts on that, counts on The Twelve assuming as much. Hiding here is the most illogical course of action, but logic had never been Villanelle's strong suit.  
  
She doesn't look at the clock on the wall, but imagines that she'd only got two or three hours of sleep. Calming Eve down and getting her to accept this current situation had been far from a walk in the park last night, and Villanelle doesn't like difficult nor complicated. She likes smooth and easy, likes things to go her way. Eve had tried to hit her in the face with a bag of ice, and in return, Villanelle had nearly shot her in the knee.  
  
_This might have been a mistake._  
  
She stares at the sky for a bit, through the window. From where she's resting, she can't see any roofs or neighbours, no trees or buildings. Just blue. The sky is bright blue today. She remembers hearing that it always rains in London. Today, London reminds her of Paris.  
  
Eve's diary is on the floor next to the couch.  
  
Villanelle reaches down and grabs it, pulls it up into her lap, and she props herself up, rearranges the pillows, makes herself comfortable. She can't be bothered to actually get up and get the newspaper (she assumes Eve gets them), so the diary will do.  
  
She chuckles. When she was a child, reading her classmate's diary had got her in such trouble. It's funny how it still applies, as an adult.  
  
_I keep telling myself that it was for Bill, for Keiko and for everyone else because all the people she killed can't have been bad people. But it doesn't make me feel better. I didn't want this._  
  
"Aww", Villanelle purrs. "So stupid." The thoughts, not Eve; incredibly stupid to think that everybody isn't bad in one way or another.  
  
_I'm so glad Niko was there when I got back. He pretended everything was okay, like we were still okay, but he kept pretending, even when I got worse. I don't deserve him. He deserves someone who puts him first, doesn't endanger him, doesn't get obsessed with psychopathic women, doesn't get so obsessed that everything around her goes to hell._  
  
And on, and on, and on. Villanelle snorts. Boring, but useful. She reaches for her phone, checks her trace on Niko Polastri. The man seems to be at his workplace.  
  
_Good. Stay there._  
  
"Give it back."  
  
Villanelle starts, sits up faster than should be possible with her wound, gun in her hand, senses going two hundred miles an hour.  
  
Eve, in a knitted cardigan and sweatpants, is standing by the door. Her hair is a mess, uncombed, wild. _Marvelous._  
  
Villanelle takes a deep breath, lowers the gun, then smiles in a way that she _knows_ is far from sweet. "Good morning, Eve. Don't sneak up on me, or I might accidentally blow your head off. It's such a nice day, have you seen the sky?"  
  
"Give it back", Eve demands, pointing at the diary in Villanelle's hands. "It's private."  
  
"Me admitting that I masturbate about you a lot is 'private', but do you hear me complaining?" Villanelle rolls her eyes, doesn't like trouble before she's properly awake. "And your little book isn't private anymore, it's my morning entertainment. My assurance that you will not flip, flot-- What is the word?"  
  
"Freak out", Eve says.  
  
"Yes", Villanelle grins. She'd just been teasing. "Freak out."  
  
Eve sticks her hands into her pockets and Villanelle's insides _sing_. Eve looks so uncomfortable, so nervous. Good. She deserves every bit of it.  
  
"You're going to have to adjust your attitude if you want your husband to still have that mustache of his by the end of this week", Villanelle points out and throws her covers off. She hadn't bothered with pants, feels oddly satisfied when she catches Eve blushing.  
  
"Okay, just--", Eve mumbles, starts walking towards her slowly. She stops a few feet from Villanelle's bare legs. Villanelle crosses them, closes the diary. This will be interesting.  
  
"I don't want to fight you", Eve says, and Villanelle holds back a laugh. As if they would ever fight. Eve had managed to stab her only because she'd been distracted. "I'll stay out of your way. You get whatever you want. I _owe_ you that much. Just, just give me my diary. It's a comfort thing, I don't know if you get that--"  
  
Villanelle doesn't.  
  
"--but I need, I just, I need to read something from there. Sort my head out. You can have this house as long as you need, and I'll do what you want, help you find The Twelve, get all the information you want, but please, give it back." Eve swallows visibly, seems to consider her words. "Oksana, _please_."  
  
_Tell me what you want. Please._  
  
Villanelle pinches her lips, cocks her head towards the door. Well, okay then. She sort of likes Eve begging, needing something from her. "Can you make me a smoothie?"  
  
Eve's eyebrows shoot up. "Um, uh, I don't, I mean-- Yes. Yes, I can. What, um, what flavour do you want?"  
  
Villanelle rolls her tongue, goes through a mental selection of different tastes in her mouth. "Strawberry and banana. With crunchy ice. Thank you."  
  
Eve seems to relax a little bit, looks Villanelle in the eye, and nods. She holds out her hand.  
  
_Boring._  
  
Villanelle hands Eve the diary. She'll steal it back later.

 

* * *

 

**II. _july._**

  
  
Villanelle follows Eve to her workplace. Her phone shows her that Eve is somewhere inside the building, and even though she'd love nothing more than to slip inside, right under the nose of MI6, right under the nose of that arrogant, old hag, she decides today is not the day for that.  
  
She isn't fully recovered yet, but on the right path. She's listening to her body more, letting herself eat what she wants, and sleep as long as she likes. She's nice to herself. Pull-ups are still too energy consuming, but a slight jog feels doable. She's getting there.  
  
She waits in a busy cafe across the street, baseball cap low on her head, hair tucked underneath, orders a cup of cold brew, puts on her British accent. She's sweating. Summer in London is nasty. Even with the air conditioning, the air inside feels too heavy, thunder rolling in.  
  
After a little more than an hour, her phone shows her that Eve is moving. Last night, Eve had got a text from a someone named Elena - Villanelle had assumed her to be a co-worker - asking if Eve would join her for an early 'cuppa' since she had a dentist's appointment at lunchtime. They'd agreed to meet in the cafe across from work, the same cafe Villanelle is already sick of. Too loud, too hot, too many chattering Brits, and the interior is _ugly_.  
  
As expected, here comes Eve, and presumably Elena. Villanelle watches them through the window, sees Eve in her pretty navy top and black skirt, bag on her shoulder. Her hair is tied up. It had been down this morning.  
  
Villanelle bites the inside of her cheek.  It's displeasing, seeing Eve trying to pin down any part of her nature.  
  
The other woman's hair is amazing too. It isn't as wild as Eve's, but it looks well cared for, looks like the woman puts work into it every morning.  
  
The bacon and egg sandwich Villanelle had ordered arrives just in time, gives her an excuse to keep her chin low while pretending to read the newspaper. She doesn't want Eve to see her, but cannot help but wonder what would happen if she did. Would she stare, scream? Confront her? No, none of the above.  
  
She would simply show surprise for a second, then not look at her again. Pretend she isn't there, like she does at home.  
  
That's the reason Villanelle is following Eve today; she needs to see her in a place where she doesn't think she's in immediate danger. She's so dull at the house. Constantly on edge, moving too carefully, speaking in the faintest of voices.  
  
Eve and probably-Elena are sitting four tables away from her. The perkier woman's arms are flapping about, she looks like she's telling some funny story, her voice so loud, but Eve isn't laughing. She's sitting there, chin supported in one hand, smiling softly, like she agrees with her friend, but Villanelle knows that look, knows she's somewhere else, somewhere far away.  
  
Villanelle slurps up some of the grease from her sandwich and is surprised to find a strong feeling in her chest, a feeling dangerously similar to relief.  
  
Eve isn't giving striking smiles or sparkling eyes to _anybody_. She's silent and depressed, all the time, looking like there's a cross on her back, weighing her down.  
  
Nobody getting sunshine and happiness from Eve Polastri is quite fine for Villanelle. Someone other than her getting those things... Well, that just wouldn't do.  
  
And of course, since Eve is treating Villanelle the same as, apparently, everybody, in Villanelle's mind it means that she'd done nothing wrong. Well, other than come back into her life, which is only temporary and Eve really doesn't need to be so dramatic about it. Villanelle isn't culpable when it comes to Eve's behavior; Eve, like everyone else, can choose how to act. She could laugh at her friend's story, but chooses not to.  
  
_Phew._  
  
It's got nothing to do with Villanelle, and that's what she set out to clear up.  
  
She'd just wanted to know, yet hadn't expected to feel so strongly about it. But, why would Eve choose _not_ to laugh if Elena _is_ funny and _is_ her friend?

Now, next to the relief in her chest, there's something else. Villanelle searches her memory, wants to groan out loud when she realizes it's worry.

 

* * *

 

**III. _august._**

  
  
"Why don't you ever go to the beach?" Villanelle asks over her shoulder while watching the weather channel. "They're promising thirty degrees without rain for the next two days. Can we go?"  
  
"No", Eve replies from the kitchen. She's opening their take-out containers, shuffling around, opening and closing cupboards.  
  
"Boring", Villanelle mutters and changes the channel. British news are so weird. Every channel that isn't the weather channel is still talking about the upcoming weather. "Why don't you go? It's nice."  
  
"I grew up in Connecticut", Eve replies, sounding absent. Now she's going through drawers. "The sand just gets stuck everywhere. Sea water tastes like... well, sea water."  
  
"That is the point, Eve." Villanelle turns to look at her. She appears to have found what she'd been searching for; chopsticks. The take-out shop must've forgotten to put them in. " _I_ like beaches."  
  
" _You_ like people looking at you", Eve corrects when she comes to sit beside her, carrying their food. "I bet you dance around in some bikini worth two hundred pounds and just roll around in the sand."  
  
Villanelle feels the side of her mouth twitch. "Yes, Eve. That is exactly what I do." Her response earns her a kick in the chin. She fakes pain for a second, then accepts the food as a peace offering.  
  
Eve is home a lot more now. During the first two months of Villanelle living with her, Eve had used to come up with bullshit excuses to stay out of the house; dinner with friends, work things, more work things, a doctor's appointment, the dentist, the hair salon, the gym. Villanelle had, of course, always traced Eve's phone, and nearly always, Eve had stayed put in the MI6-building. Villanelle hadn't really been bothered by the white lies as long as Eve had held up her end of the bargain. And lately, there had been a lot less white lies.  
  
It makes Villanelle glad. She hadn't made any friends here, no acquaintances, not even a casual one night stand (though it had crossed her mind several times). She'd almost begun feeling lonely. Almost. Luckily, it isn't a problem anymore.  
  
Sleeping is a luxury. The bed is _so_ nice. Villanelle doesn't feel the need to keep a folding knife with her anymore. She trusts Eve (or then Eve is just really good at deceit). She sleeps like a log. There's a motion detector at the gate, as well as by the back door. She keeps them on during the night, lets herself slip deep into her dreams, knowing the detector will wake her up long before anyone manages to enter the house, unless they bulldoze it down to get to her.  
  
Eve still screams in her sleep every now and then, and Villanelle still doesn't really know what to do when that happens. The first time, Villanelle had considered just letting Eve scream, but that had meant Villanelle being forced to stay awake, so she had sided on slapping her instead.  
  
Apparently, slapping someone awake _isn't_ something you do. Eve had made that clear while stomping out to sleep on the shit couch in the study.  
  
After that, Villanelle had learnt to gently shake Eve awake, in case she had nightmares. It still feels weird, but it means Eve stays in bed. She still isn't completely sure it's the right thing to do though, because once, Eve had woken herself up by screaming, and then she'd been clinging to Villanelle's shoulders like her life had depended on it.  
  
Maybe hugging her would be better.  
  
Maybe fucking her back to sleep would be better, too, but Villanelle doesn't ask. Asking would mean making Eve think that she cares what Eve prefers, which she doesn't.  
  
The fucking. _Ugh_. Villanelle watches Eve get ready for work, watches her do her hair, watches her wearing clothes she'd bought, watches her scrub the house clean, watches her drinking milk straight out of the plastic container, watches her walk around in nothing but a towel, watches her do everything except strip out of her clothes and ask Villanelle to touch her.  
  
The hints are there. Villanelle understands seduction, understands flirting, takes pride in being really good at both, but it isn't enough. After all their games, after the damn chase, she wants Eve to _say_ it. She'll wait until she says it, knowing that by being proper and respecting, she's acting 'as one should', and slowly driving Eve nuts.  
  
"Did you swim as a child?"  
  
Villanelle gets back to earth, blinks, turns her head to look at Eve, who looks stunned, like she hadn't meant to say that. Villanelle doesn't want to talk about it, works around it instead. "I told you I'm an excellent swimmer."  
  
"But--" There's hesitation in Eve's voice. "Did you swim, you know, when you were young?"  
  
Villanelle hadn't. She'd learnt to swim way later than most people. She chews on her szechuan beef, is quiet for a long time, and Eve turns back towards the television. "No."  
  
The truth is, she doesn't want to talk about little Oksana growing up in a shit home in a shit country with a shit father who had hated her so much she hadn't even been allowed to carry his name. But of course Eve wants to talk about that. Anything to piece together a profile on _why_ Villanelle is who she is.  
  
"Did you ever see the Baltic Sea?"  
  
_Oh, for the love of God._  
  
Villanelle doesn't bother swallowing her food before answering. "I saw it quickly when I was ordered to kill a target in Gdansk."  
  
She feels Eve stare at her. Good. She'd meant to shut her up. She hadn't even killed anyone in Gdansk.  
  
"There's a 'Cold Feet' re-run starting in five", Eve says. Villanelle notices that she'd put her half-eaten food down. "Do you want to watch that?"  
  
The storm in Villanelle's chest calms down. "Yes. I like the guy with the eyebrows."  
  
"Adam?"  
  
"I don't know." Villanelle pours the rest of the szechuan sauce down her throat straight out of the box. "He has weird eyebrows. He sounds funny." She puts the container down on the floor and stretches, feels the knots in her shoulder blades pop.  
  
"I could, erm, you know--"  
  
Villanelle looks over at Eve, who looks like she wants to sink through the couch. "Yes?"  
  
"I could try to open those for you. The knots, I mean, um. I could hear them. You, you look tense. I could, you know, if you want."  
  
Villanelle takes a moment to consider this proposal. There's a blade, shaped like a claw, fastened to the underside of the couch. Then again, Eve is probably not trying to get her into a vulnerable position. She suspects Eve is honestly upset about asking about things she knows Villanelle doesn't want to discuss, and by doing this, wants to say 'sorry'. In her own way. It would fit Eve's character, trying to do the morally right thing. It wouldn't fit Villanelle at all.  
  
"Okay", she says, and sits down on the floor in front of Eve's legs. Why the hell not. She can easily reach the knife if she needs to.  
  
Eve's touch is light, nervous. The heel of her right hand starts rubbing in circles over Villanelle's lats, right under her shoulder blades. It feels nice. Eve's left hand is holding her upper body in place, rests on her shoulder.  
  
They don't speak. Eve keeps adding pressure and Villanelle grits her teeth, stifles a groan, enjoys the whole thing very much indeed. The comedy is just white noise in the background, but Villanelle keeps her eyes on the television. Not for the show, but for the pauses. Every time the screen goes black, she sees their reflection.

 

* * *

 

**IV. _september._**

  
  
Villanelle's body is covered in light scratches. They match her scar very well.  
  
She spends time in front of the mirror at least once a day, to map them out, check for new ones, see how they're healing, see how they glow on her soft, pale skin. She touches them, tries to remember when Eve had given them to her, what she'd looked like at that moment.  
  
Villanelle grins at her reflection. These days, she feels like a fucking conqueror. Unlike Eve, she doesn't feel empty after crossing a finish line, reaching a goal, _winning_. She feels reborn.  
  
Well, she doesn't ask how Eve feels _now_ , because then Eve would ask the same question but just be disappointed to hear that Villanelle actually, like Eve really should know if she were any good at criminal psychology at all, doesn't spend time thinking about feelings. Not if she can help it.  
  
_Nice life._  
  
Playing is nice. They'd done it for months. Villanelle enjoys a challenge, enjoys having a carrot dangled right in front of her, but God, the tension; always there, hanging in the air. It had ultimately become too much. Eve had kept snapping, getting angry, seemed anxious, unhappy. So Villanelle had decided it was time to stop playing.  
  
And so they stopped.  
  
Or rather, started.  
  
Eve had been timid, probably scared to touch her, that first time. It had taken a good while for her to come, but apparently, when her defenses had broken down, the walls had followed. After she'd recovered, gasping and hiding her flushed face into her palms, she'd suddenly grabbed Villanelle's neck, pushed her onto her back, and pounced.  
  
And Villanelle had let her.  
  
She still has a bruise from that.  
  
Eve likes getting fucked more than she likes fucking, but that's more than okay because for Villanelle, it isn't just the physical pleasure. Sure, she enjoys it, always has, but more than that, she enjoys possessing Eve; taming her, because she knows Eve isn't the sort of woman who allows herself to be tamed by anyone. Villanelle wants to grip her, make her plead and cry, wants to pound into her, fuck her until she feels like she's actually a real part of her.  
  
It's heavenly. Everything about Eve, now that she'd come to Villanelle willingly, is exotic, fresh, captivating.  
  
They never have sex in the upstairs bedroom. Villanelle suspects it has something to do with nearly twenty years of marriage, but she also recognizes that she's the last person on earth to have any sort of understanding of how marriages actually work, so she doesn't even attempt to comprehend, doesn't ask Eve. Doesn't even care, if she's completely honest with herself. She wouldn't even like just having sex, then going straight to sleep, like she imagines some married couples do. She prefers the stairs, the patio, the kitchen island, any wall.  
  
Tonight they're on the living room floor. Villanelle still has her t-shirt on and revels in the droplets of sweat running down her neck, her back. Eve is straddling her, naked except for a lacy bra bought by Villanelle.  
  
"Oh, fuck", Eve whines, digs her nails into Villanelle's shoulders, thrusts herself onto her fingers, pants into her ear, starts to swear properly once she's coming.  
  
Villanelle stares at Eve's face, wants to drink up every detail, store all the moans, save them for later. When Eve is finished, Villanelle grabs the back of her head and brings her down, thrusts her tongue into her mouth, bites her lip so hard Eve actually cries out.  
  
"Now, be good", Villanelle commands, because she's slick and wet and so aroused she might actually kill someone if she doesn't get off, "and go down on me." She tangles her fingers into Eve's wild hair, forces her head down, all the way down her body, in between her legs, keeps her stuck there so that she can get what she wants, can grind her hips into Eve's face and memorize the sounds of her lips and tongue being put to work.  
  
It's quick. She throbs, thrusts once, twice, and comes into her mouth, keeps her eyes open through it, orders Eve to lick her clean.  
  
It's hate sex. That's why it's so good.   
  
"I think I sprained something", Villanelle gasps afterwards, pushing her damp hair out of her face. The pleasure is still tingling between her legs, making her feel heavy and warm. Grounded. She likes this; likes the exhaustion, the smell of sex, her sticky skin.  
  
"Careful", Eve says and glances at Villanelle, who notices she looks a bit shy, but not at all unhappy. "If we keep this up, you'll never heal and then you'll be stuck here with me."  
  
Hate or not, Villanelle thinks a fate like that sounds sort of nice.

 

* * *

  
  
**V. _october._**

  
  
The transition between autumn and winter is absolute shit. London lies in a thick cloud of fog all day every single day, occasionally gets bathed in storms of icy rain or hail, the roads freeze at night only to overflow the next day and Villanelle screams out loud on her morning jog because goddammit, she can't focus on running smoothly when every step on the pavement is a potential risk of slipping backwards and cracking her skull open.  
  
She'll be caught dead before she wears those sneakers with pins underneath them.  
  
Running is the best way she knows to blow off steam. She's pissed off. She'd told Eve something important yesterday morning, and Eve hadn't mentioned it once. She'd done it again this morning, when Eve had been a mess of dark hair and white sheets with grains of sleep still in her eyes.  
  
Nothing. Complete disregard. Not one word.  
  
Villanelle screams again, startles a woman with a baby carriage, receives a frightened stare but it doesn't matter because she's already gone, crossing the street, going faster with the risk of falling on her ass and causing a road accident.  
  
The weather reminds her of Moscow. Reminds her of rainy afternoons, tucked in under an umbrella, on the arm of someone she once considered the most beautiful masterpiece of a woman on this earth.  
  
Anna had loved her. She had said so.  
  
Although, Anna had got her arrested and thrown into the shittiest of shitholes for years, and Villanelle decides, regardless of similarities, that Anna is a bad comparison to Eve.  
  
The betrayal still stings.  
  
Angry, out of breath and (heaven forbid) disappointed, she sits down on a bench partially covered by a tree, then immediately realizes that she's felt like this before, and the alarms start going off in her head, a big neon coloured sign screaming at her to stop, stop, stop and get the fuck out.  
  
There's pain coming if she lets this get to her, lets _Eve_ get to her. Stupid woman. She means Eve, yet knows she really means herself.  
  
_What's the point._  
  
She's fine. She's healed, she could run a goddamn marathon with this level of oxygen uptake and she should be well on her way but no, she just had to go and get used to her little domestic bliss with Eve fucking Polastri and now she knows she really should be making a run for it, but also knows she doesn't really want to.  
  
_Nice life. Cool flat. Fun job. Someone to watch movies with._  
  
Two out of four. Villanelle slaps her forehead with both hands, like hitting herself will somehow erase this ridiculous notion of actually liking what she's got going right now. Or maybe she just clings to it because she's never had this before: With Anna, there was always Max (ugh), with Eve, there's no Niko, not anymore, if she doesn't count her threat to his life. They hadn't even talked about him in a long time, she hasn't checked her trace on him for weeks.  
  
But if there's no Niko, why doesn't Eve acknowledge Villanelle's honesty, her spontaneous confession?    
  
Maybe Villanelle is seeing what she wants to see.  
  
God. She will _kill_ her.  
  
If Eve really is keeping up some sort of charade, sleeping with her, having sex with her, just to keep her in place so that she doesn't take off to kill the rest of The Twelve and their keepers, then she really will kill her. Shoot her, stab her, mess her up so bad Niko and that Martens bitch will need her dental records to identify her, completely _destroy_ her. For real, this time.  
  
The thought of hurting and killing Eve doesn't excite her nearly as much as it did a few months ago.  
  
Goddammit.  
  
When Villanelle gets back, she goes straight into the bedroom and bends down in front of the bed. Months ago, she'd bought several knives that had spoken to her. One of them is fastened under the bed; a Santuko knife, seven inches, light as a feather, with a handle made of stainless steel. It's practically begging to be put to use.  
  
She will wait until Eve gets home this evening. They will have a conversation that can go either way, and then Villanelle will know if she really has, once again, been fooled by Eve Polastri.  
  
Of course, things don't go according to plan at all.  
  
When Eve comes home after seven in the evening, she's carrying a black paper bag, labeled Charlotte Valkeniers. Villanelle doesn't recognize the name. She's waiting in the living room, knife tucked neatly into the waistband of her slacks. It's resting there, cold and waiting, at the small of her back.  
  
"I had to search this whole city for that", Eve says as she thrusts the bag into Villanelle's rigid hands. Villanelle accepts it, feels like she's suddenly lost her footing. What-- "It's for you. Open it, please."  
  
"Is it a grenade?" she asks. Inside the bag, there's a package, a box of black wood. She eyes it suspiciously, puts it to her ear to hear if it's ticking. Curiosity defeats anger, just for a little while.   
  
"No grenades", Eve says, looks at Villanelle with something that she can't make out. Eve's smiling with her eyes, but she's fidgety. "Open it, okay? This is nerve-wracking enough as it is. You buying me gifts is a totally different thing."  
  
So it's a gift. Villanelle opens the box, knows her face betrays her the second she sees what's inside.  
  
"To go with your rings", Eve explains, fidgeting even more now. "I saw it and it reminded me of you, and I, w-- well, it's, um, you. _To me_. One of a kind, elegant, you know, um, just, beautiful. Sophisticated. It's you, so I want you to have it."  
  
It's a golden wrist cuff. Half an inch wide, with crystal embellishments. It looks almost like Villanelle's hair whenever it's braided.  
  
Eve takes control, takes the cuff out of its box, places it around Villanelle's wrist. "It looks really good on you."  
  
There's a gaping hole in her chest, worse than any stab wound could ever be. Suddenly, the terror she feels _isn't_ from the possibility of being rejected by someone she's realized she loves, _isn't_ ultimately in the hands of someone else, _isn't_ from the string of uncomfortable shit she'd imagined was coming because of _Eve_. The terror comes from the realization that what Villanelle feels here, _regardless_ of how Eve feels, is the greatest existing threat to herself.  
  
She looks down at the cuff, glistening and bright on her slender wrist. Eve is holding onto her hand, tracing it with the pad of her thumb, looking at their feet.  
  
"Do you like it?"  
  
She loves it.  
  
She hates it, hates what it's conjuring up in her heart that's beating too fast, too hard. "Yes", she says, still looking at it. "Thank you."  
  
She can't speak. She can't get any words, in any language, to form in her mouth when Eve leads her to the couch, starts to take off her blouse, her own clothes. Villanelle momentarily snaps out of her trance, smoothly reaches behind herself to grab the knife, to slip it out of her slacks. When Eve grabs her neck, kisses her with hunger, she drops the knife between the back of the couch and the cushions, hoping she'll remember where it ended up.  
  
Eve is restless, driven. She gets their clothes off, touches Villanelle everywhere, like she wants to dig through her flesh, all the way to her bones, to feel her as deeply as she can. She nips and bites and groans and scratches and Villanelle keeps her eyes open, keeps taking her in, even when Eve pushes her legs apart, kisses her there, drinks her up like she's something holy, like the whole act itself is worshiping, reverent. She's loving her with her mouth.   
  
_No._  
  
Instead of looking, Villanelle lets her head fall back, lets it hit the floor when the pulses grow too quick and the pleasure spreads through her body. She shudders, nails digging into the back of Eve's head, but her mind screams, neon signs still blinking at her, only at her.  
  
This is where she decides to start reeling herself in. She'd already given too much, spread parts of herself all over the house. Picked up pieces of Eve, stored them in the usually empty cavity of her chest.

_No._

She can't have this, this _vulnerability_. Villanelle comes from Neverland, an island amidst stars deep in space, the place where she never ever has to grow up, act against her nature, be bound to the rules of society. She needs to return there, get away from these chains built from her sick ability to love, from Eve's silent love.  
  
When she locates her next target, no matter how long it takes, she will pack her things, accept this new transition, disappear as if she were never here. She'll tell Eve about her plan eventually, but for now, she wants to create a few more moments. She responds to her kisses, works her way into her body, all while slowly closing off her heart.

 

* * *

  
  
**VI. _november._**

  
  
When Villanelle gets back from her jog, she immediately senses that something is wrong. Her body works faster than her mind; the hair at the nape of her neck stands up, her chest expands and tightens at the same time, there's a sting, a needle in her stomach. She hears her own pulse, all in the matter of seconds.  
  
The house is dark, but it isn't empty. She knows straight away that Eve is still out. Villanelle stays in the long hallway, gazes at the stairs, past them to the back door, up at the ceiling.  
  
A few weeks back, she'd hidden a knife in one of the drawers by the staircase. Slowly and carefully, she bends down to remove her sneakers, all while keeping her gaze up. When she's rid of them, she moves steadily towards the drawer, swears under her breath because she knows it will make a sound when she opens it.  
  
"Looking for this?" a voice asks in Russian from the living-room.  
  
For a second, she lets herself feel relieved; it _isn't_ Konstantin. She crosses the rest of the hall and turns to her right, stands in the open doorway. There, she finds a man sitting in the armchair. He's holding the knife she was going to grab.  
  
"Oh, come ooon", she snickers, eyeing the familiar face before her. "They don't really want me the dead. They must want _you_ dead. Otherwise, they would not have sent you."  
  
The man sitting in the chair is called Piotr. Villanelle doesn't know his code name, nor does she care. They'd trained together, under Konstantin, long ago, in a small town called Zvenigorod in the outskirts of Moscow. He looks like someone Russia would send to the yearly Eurovision song contest. He's far younger, far weaker, and unfortunately lacks intuition, manners and speed.  
  
"They are angry with you", he says while twisting the knife around in his hand.  
  
"Hmm." Villanelle is calmer know, knows she isn't in danger, even if he'd like to think the opposite, would like to think himself worthy of his job. Villanelle is, frankly, surprised that he's alive.  
  
"You shouldn't have done that", he continues, points the knife at her.  
  
"I was bored", Villanelle replies, decides to push his buttons. "Nobody likes it when I'm bored. In fact, I'm a little bored _now._ Too bad."  
  
"You left a mess in that hotel room. He was an important man."  
  
"I'm lazy, I never clean. And he gave himself away when he spoke to the newspapers about 'the proper order of things' and 'ends justifying means' and blah, blah, blah. He was such a pussy, crying for help the minute he saw my face."  
  
"Your face is rather horrendous."  
  
Villanelle bites her tongue.  
  
_Rude._  
  
"And you have come to kill me", she states, eyebrows raised. He nods, looking apologetic. "I assume you didn't find me yourself."  
  
He doesn't reply.  
  
"So they know where I am", she says, and clasps her hands. "Well. That is really unfortunate. I like this house."  
  
"Where is the woman?" he asks. Villanelle puts on her blank face. "The MI6-agent, Polastri, where is she?"  
  
_No._  
  
"She's dead. Buried in the garden, back there."  
  
"The ground is frozen, Villanelle."  
  
"I killed her when I came here, stupid. She did a shit thing, so I did a shit thing back."  
  
"Really." Piotr lowers his gaze for a second, and Villanelle fights against the urge to kick him in the face. "That is so funny. Because I saw you two out there in the snow only two hours ago. Or was that some other whore of yours?"  
  
Villanelle feels her face burn, feels her insides twist, feels her rage bubble, bubble, bubble up inside her, climb up her esophagus, ready to erupt.  
  
"You should have got rid of her", Piotr continues matter-of-factly, like Villanelle is the one who's stupid.  
  
"Yeah, well, she's entertaining." Villanelle squats down, moves her weight from side to side, like she's getting ready for Pilates. She feels her muscles stretching. The floor is hard under her heels, but she isn't interested in the floor. She's interested in the carpet.  
  
"Do you think she will find it entertaining when I dig out her intestines?"  
  
"Copycat", Villanelle teases. He is _so_ stupid. "She will be back soon. You might want to take care of me first." She purses her lips and points at his crossed legs. "You couldn't handle two women, not with that thing."  
  
As expected, he pushes himself up, knife in hand, and Villanelle grabs the edge of the carpet resting right in front of her nose. She pulls as hard as she can, quick as a cat.  
  
Villanelle knows how slippery the floor is; she'd experienced it first hand, many times. The carpet is thin, there's no sticky plastic underneath it to hold it in its place. In a split second, Piotr spins, loses his footing, hits the back of his head on the edge of the armchair, and slumps down onto his side, screaming.  
  
Villanelle rises slowly, admires the chain reaction she'd caused. It's so funny. She smiles, a genuine, satisfied smile, and stalks towards her soon-to-be former competition.  
  
"Bitch", Piotr grunts, gazing up at her. He's holding the back of his head, swearing and shuffling himself backwards.  
  
"You went down so fast, like boom", Villanelle laughs, holds her hands up to show she is unarmed, to rub it in even more. He looks _ridiculous_ on the floor. "Go on then, you biiig dangerous man. Make Konstantin proud--"  
  
The knife slashes across her right thigh and she backs up, groans more in frustration than in pain. _Idiot_. She'd expected him to go for her torso like a proper contract killer, not disarm her from the knees up like a coward.  "Big mistake", she hisses, puts all of her weight onto her cut leg, pushes her other heel into his crotch, making him drop the knife in order to get to her ankle. She's off of him too quickly, lunges after the knife, shoves it into his neck.  
  
So, so easy.  
  
Even though the knife is handle-deep inside his throat, he still tries to get to hers. She lets him squeeze it while smiling, looks him dead in the eye as she twists the knife, sees his eyes widen in realization, sees the _fear_ , sees his pupils blow, feels the warm blood, feels the life leave his body and his grip loosen, until his arms hit the floor.  
  
She pulls the knife out and cuts his thigh, just for good measure. _Jackass_.  
  
The adrenaline starts wearing off. Villanelle stays on the floor to examine her thigh, to calm down. It's not a deep cut; horizontal instead of a stab through, maybe five inches, and he hadn't hit any crucial arteries. Just a scrape, then.   
  
Villanelle leaves him and the knife on the living room floor, moves on autopilot, starts collecting her things onto the kitchen island, then shoves everything into a bag. Her thigh burns. Weapons, maps, money. She doesn't bother with clothes, books, things she doesn't acutely need. She hadn't brought much with her; she's leaving with just as little.  
  
When she's done, she approaches the back door. She has a pair of warm, fuzzy slippers waiting there. She slips her feet into them, grabs Eve's knitted cardigan from a hook and throws it around her shoulders.  
  
The evening is cold. The snow makes a funny sound under her feet when she sits down on the edge of the patio, on the line between wood and earth.  
  
Her breath creates a cloud of fog in front of her face. Under a clear sky full of stars, amidst snow and former happiness and freshly made memories, she finally lets herself feel what's happening.  
  
It's utterly inconvenient. She'd enjoyed her time here very much, enjoyed the fake, domestic bliss. She'd had a little bit of peace for months, and enough time to heal properly. Her new wound is just a dent, nothing a little disinfectant and gauze can't fix.  
  
_Eve._  
  
Eve will have to hide, or she'll die here. Well, that is her choice of course. She will remember now, upon finding the body, who Villanelle really is, whom she'd really been sleeping with all this time. Villanelle knows Eve had desperately wanted to believe she would change and settle, stop killing, want that _nice life_ , all while knowing that she wouldn't.  
  
It was never going to happen. Villanelle had known that for years now, no matter what she'd come to feel. She'd wanted it, of course, but wanting and knowing are two different things, and she is a lot of things, but not delusional. She knows that everything - the green tea, the silk sheets, the woolen socks, the conversations, the fucking, the fighting, the love -, all of it, every little thing, had been temporary. Just on loan, never hers to keep.

Still, putting her expanding love on pause hadn't made it shrink one bit.   
  
Still, Eve had felt like _home_.  
  
Eve will be home, for real soon. Villanelle considers slipping back into the dark before she gets here, considers how Eve might react.  
  
Villanelle thinks Eve might want to say bye, or something, thinks she might get mad if Villanelle just leaves without a word after nearly six months under her roof. Six months of so many things. She realizes that simply leaving would be considered rude, so she stays where she is. She will wait right here.  
  
She imagines a shooting star, crossing the dark sky. She'd seen one as a child, in another country, under another name. She bites the side of her cheek, clenches her fists when the weight of leaving settles on her shoulders.  
  
The blood from the cut on her thigh seeps into the snow. Villanelle wishes her memories would seep too, slowly drip out of her body, out of her brain, so she wouldn't have to carry them with her, wouldn't have to be someone who has _lost_ something.  
  
It's ironic. When Villanelle first had arrived at Eve's house, she hadn't thought that there'd potentially be something to lose. Now, thirsty for water and thirsty for the smell of Eve's hair that makes her lungs fill with love, she admits that she got it wrong. She got it so incredibly wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. It was truly a joy to write this second piece of "Snowfall".


End file.
